


A Wizard's Pupil

by Sansastarkofwinterfell



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 12:42:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sansastarkofwinterfell/pseuds/Sansastarkofwinterfell
Summary: Denethor calls Faramir ‘A Wizard’s pupil,’ but not much is known about the relationship between Faramir and Gandalf. Here is my take on a relationship that is overlooked, and how Faramir came to earn that title.





	A Wizard's Pupil

**Author's Note:**

> I find that the relationship between Faramir and Gandalf is one that is fascinating, but often overlooked. Faramir clearly admires Gandalf, and I wanted to explore this, for I feel that they would’ve been close as Faramir grew up. Hope you enjoy this, and I hope I have done justice to the two characters.

**2987 TA, Minas Tirith**

“Mithrandir!” A voice called out, and the wizard smiled when he turned around and saw Finduilas of Dol Amroth approaching him. He had always been fond of the young woman and enjoyed her company. It pained him to know that she was beginning to fall ill. He could see how she had changed simply by looking at her, the natural joy and spark in her eyes was starting to dwindle.

It was only when he went to embrace her that he took note of the child holding her hand, hiding slightly behind her leg, perhaps afraid of the old, dishevelled man in front of him. It had been nearly five years since his last visit to Minas Tirith and he had completely forgot the news that the new Steward of Gondor had welcomed a second son.

“This young man must be Faramir!” He exclaimed, remembering the name he had been told belonged to the younger boy. He smiled at the child, who appeared slightly from behind his mother’s leg and stared at him with his mother’s eyes, eyes that showed wisdom far beyond his tender age of four.

“Faramir, say hello to Mithrandir,” Finduilas coaxed gently, and her son smiled, extending a hand formally to the wizard.

“Hello, sir,” he said, and Gandalf shook his head, laughing slightly as he did at such a formal gesture from a young person.

“No need for formal titles, young lad. You may call me Mithrandir, or Gandalf if that is easier.” Faramir smiled at his words and Gandalf returned his gaze to Finduilas. She was about to speak, but the small voice beside her interrupted.

“Is it true that you have fireworks? Boromir says they are the best, and he said you have a massive dragon one,” Faramir said eagerly, his apprehension at first meeting Gandalf now completely gone. He had perked up, eyes wide with excitement and Gandalf laughed, marvelling at the wonder that is human children.

“Perhaps later, Fara. I assume Mithrandir is busy?” Finduilas said, aiming her question at Gandalf.

“Indeed. I come here for access to your library, My Lady,” he replied. To his surprise, he saw the eyes of the boy light up and a huge smile spread across his face.

“I can help you. I can read, and I know where all the books are.” He then turned to his mother, “please mama, can I help?”

“Not today,” she said, and Faramir pouted, disappointed. “Run along now. Go and find your brother.” The smile returned to his face at the mention of Boromir and he ran off as quickly as a four-year-old could. He turned back around to wave at Gandalf who, despite only just meeting him, liked the child.

“He can read?” He asked Finduilas, not quite believing the words of a four-year-old, however honest they sounded.

“Very well. I often find him with his nose buried in a book when he should be sleeping. And he is already learning Sindarin, though at a slow pace for now. If they did not look so similar, you would not believe he and Boromir are brothers. They are the opposite of each other.”

“Well, two children exactly like Boromir would certainly be a handful,” Gandalf joked, laughing and remembering the last time he had seen the elder son, running around with boundless energy, slaying imaginary orcs and winning battles for Gondor with his wooden sword.

“I worry for them.”

“There is no need to worry for them. They will be just fine.”

“Will they?” She asked, pausing as she looked back at the retreating form of her son. “Boromir is a wonderful child, and I know he will one day make a remarkable Steward. But he will also become a soldier, and the darkness is creeping nearer, Mithrandir, and my son will have to fight it. He will fight against the shadow where he cannot be protected.

“And so, will Faramir, though I fear it is not the path he will truly want to take. My eldest was born to be a soldier, I see it in him already, but Faramir, while I have no doubt he will one day do his duty and do it well, I can already see war is not his way. He is but four years of age and he already thinks the best in people and has a pure heart and war will destroy him inside. He is too gentle for this harsh world we live in, and I will not be here to see him into adulthood.”

“You should not say such things, my dear.”

“But it is true, Mithrandir,” she said, emotion clouding her voice, “I may see Boromir in his teens, but I will not see Faramir at that age. I feel myself slipping with every day that passes.”

“Then let it ease your heart when I tell you that I will look out for them both,” he promised her, and took her hand in comfort.

As night was approaching, Gandalf sat in the library, desperate for information he may have missed on previous visits. It was a tough task, finding a book in the Citadel library due to the sheer size of it, but he had managed to find the books he wanted to read. He estimated he would be in Minas Tirith for a week or so and most of that time he would spend down here.

“Oops,” a small voice uttered, making Gandalf jump slightly. He looked to his right and saw that a pile of books had been scattered on the floor and the perpetrator was looking sheepish, refusing to meet his eye.

“Were you spying on me?” He asked, and Faramir shook his head.

“No. Mama said it is bad to sneak up on people.”

“Hmm, it is. So, what are you doing here, young Faramir?”

“I came to help,” the boy replied, beaming. Gandalf laughed, thinking that perhaps Finduilas was wrong and her two sons were more similar than she thought. Many a time in the past, Boromir had snuck off to seek Gandalf out when his parents had wanted him elsewhere.

“I would love your help, my young friend. But in truth I have finished here for tonight, so I will call upon you for help tomorrow.” Gandalf’s heart softened at the look of disappointment in his eyes and came up with an idea. “But, if you come with me now, I can show you those fireworks your brother is so fond of.”

That worked, for Faramir grinned at him and started chatting excitedly about the fireworks and everything his brother had said about them.

**********

**2988 TA, Minas Tirith**

Gandalf was not too sure that he was welcome at Minas Tirith. Lord Denethor’s greeting had been as cold as usual, but although two months had passed, it was clear the man was still in grief and had no wish to talk to him. Perhaps it would have been best if the wizard had listened to his conscience and left the White City, but he had made a promise to the late Lady Finduilas that he would keep an eye out for her sons and knew that losing a mother would be hard on two boys as young as they were.

He had found Boromir earlier on that day, and although he put on a brave face, Gandalf knew he was hurting inside. He was of an age where he was no longer dependent on his mother, but Lady Finduilas loved her two boys dearly, and it was hard for Boromir to have that taken from him.

He spent a few hours with Boromir, watching him as he showed off his new skills with a sword, and then comforting with stories he liked when he was younger. Gandalf smiled to know that despite his protests, Boromir was still a child at heart and not as grown as some thought him to be.

In the hours he spent with Boromir, he saw no sign of Faramir. He asked Boromir about this, but he shook his head and looked at him, eyes full of emotion.

“He spends most of his time alone. Whenever I try to talk to him, he just stays quiet, cries, and then walks away. I have been trying to help him, Mithrandir, but I don’t know how. And I miss her too.”

After listening to Boromir get upset about his inability to help his younger brother grieve, Gandalf left him alone and sought out the younger of the Steward’s sons, hoping to help him.

He managed to find Faramir, arms clutching his legs and head bowed down as he sat in a corner of his bedroom. Gandalf saw no tear marks on his face, but it was clear that the child was in a lot of pain emotionally.

“Hello Mithrandir,” Faramir said without even looking up at him.

“Well, that was one of the least enthusiastic welcomes I have ever received,” he replied lightly, hoping to gain a smile from the boy but it did not work. Sighing, and realising he would have to approach Faramir differently, he sat down beside him in silence.

For a while, there was no noise apart from the hustle and bustle of the city below them, but the silence was eventually broken, as Gandalf heard the young boy sniffing, trying to hold back tears but not successfully doing so. Gandalf offered him a handkerchief, which Faramir took gratefully and tried to wipe his eyes. As with all children though, once the tears began, he could not stop them from falling.

Gandalf did feel somewhat awkward sat beside the five-year-old as he cried, unsure of what to do or say. He had been alive for thousands of years and had dealt with many threats, but helping a grieving child was not an area he specialised in, and so he decided it was best to wait until Faramir was ready to talk before offering him any words of comfort.

“Father says it is alright to cry,” Faramir finally said after his tears had dried. This surprised Gandalf, for Denethor had become a strict and cold man, a man who Gandalf had assumed would be ashamed at his son’s tears. He was not unloving, because he had certainly loved his wife and oldest son, and though Gandalf had come to realise that he did not often show it openly, it was still clear that Denethor loved his second son as well. He was often harsher towards the young boy, wanting to mould him into a soldier despite his young age, and this meant that Gandalf would never have thought that Denethor would tell his son there is no problem with tears. Perhaps he did not know the Steward as well as he thought he did.

“And he is right. There is no shame in tears.”

“I just wish she was here. I wanted her to stay.” Gandalf felt extreme pity for Faramir at those words, for there was no one more important in a person’s life than their mother, and this young boy may not even remember her by the time he reached adulthood.

“I know you did. Everyone who knew your mother loved her and wanted her to stay. But she was not well, and she was in pain. Did you want her to stay in pain?” Gandalf asked, taking a slightly different approach to comfort and Faramir shook his head at his question, “of course, you didn’t. Where she is now, she is free of pain, and in peace. And though she may not be here, she will be watching you as you grow.”

“Where is she now, Mithrandir?”

And so, as simply as he could, Gandalf explained to him what life after death is like. He described the Undying Lands, with its beautiful white shores, and assured the young boy that death is not the end and for the first time since he had sat with Faramir that evening, he saw a small smile grace his face.

Gandalf remained in the White City for a month, helping both of the boys with their grief. Both boys were trying to move on, but it was clear that their mother’s ghost still haunted the walls of Minas Tirith, making it more difficult for them to attempt to return to normality.

In spite of Denethor assuring his younger son that it was alright to cry, he soon grew tired and impatient of having to console Faramir every night, especially when his own grief was still extremely strong, and he began to spend far more time with Boromir, who while still upset about his mother’s death, was not as emotional anymore.

Denethor quickly became short tempered with his second son and paid him very little attention. Without the love of a mother, Gandalf worried for Faramir, a very young child who needed both attention and affection from an adult and feared that he would receive little of either with Denethor so clearly in mourning himself. He was clearly close to his mother’s family in Dol Amroth, as was Boromir, and so before he left the White City, Gandalf approached Denethor with a proposition concerning his two sons.

Denethor lost his mind at Gandalf’s idea of sending both the boys to live with their Grandfather, Adrahil, for a few months until the presence of the Lady Finduilas was less felt around the city. Gandalf told Denethor that it would do them both good to spend some time at the sea with their family who they do not see enough of, but he was met with a glare full of hatred and a string of accusations that he was trying to steal his sons from him.

The Steward told Gandalf that under no circumstances were Boromir or Faramir leaving his side. Gandalf knew that both boys were in good hands, for it was clear to him that they were loved by their father, even if he did not show it, but he still worried for them, and so he kept his promise to Finduilas and returned to the city time and time again over the years to look out for her sons.

**********

**2993 TA, Minas Tirith**

“We have a guest, Faramir,” he heard Boromir tell his brother, somewhat annoyed, “you cannot go and greet them with dirt all over your clothes.”

“Who is the guest?”

“Father did not say. He only said that we were to wear our best clothes and arrive for dinner on time.”

He chose that moment to appear from behind the door where he had been listening and chuckling to himself at their conversation.

“It is only I, young Faramir. You need not dress in your best clothes to meet with me.”

Both of the Steward’s sons beamed as they heard his voice. Faramir ran towards him and threw his arms around his middle. Boromir, now fifteen and seemingly too old for embraces, held back and waited to his brother to let go, but extended an arm to the wizard, and Gandalf saw in his eyes that he was happy to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Faramir asked, completely blindsided by his arrival. He had sent word to Lord Denethor of his impending arrival but asked the Steward to keep it a secret from his sons as he wanted to surprise Faramir on his birthday, and it appeared that the Steward had respected his wishes. It had been at least a year since his last trip to Minas Tirith and felt that his tenth birthday was the right to come back.

“I heard that someone turns ten tomorrow and I did not want to miss out on the celebration,” he answered, with a smile on his face, and his heart warmed when Faramir smiled back at him.

“We’re not having a celebration, Mithrandir,” Faramir said, not at all upset that he was not to receive the same celebration his brother did when he turned ten, “but my Uncle is coming to visit, and he’s bringing my cousins too. I haven’t met Erchirion yet. And my Aunt is having another baby as well.”

“Faramir, let Mithrandir breathe before bombarding him with information,” Boromir said, laughing at his enthusiastic brother who stopped talking and looked sheepish.

“Sorry, Mithrandir.”

“No need to apologise, my lad.”

“You may not need his apologies for his constant talking, Mithrandir, but you shall certainly receive them for the manner of my son’s appearance when greeting you.”

He had not seen Denethor enter the room as all of his focus was on his two sons. Denethor’s eyes were burning with anger, and they were focused solely on Faramir, who seemed to shrink before him. He turned around and bowed his head towards the Steward in greeting, but he didn’t seem to acknowledge him as he was still glaring at his second son.

“Forgive me, Mithrandir. I should not have greeted you while my appearance was so poor. Father, I will go and make myself presentable now.” And with that he darted off. Mithrandir would admit, the lad’s appearance was less than proper. He had clearly been knelt on grass as there were stains on his knees, his shirt was creased, and his hair was unruly, but it bothered him little, though it clearly angered the Steward.

“Boromir, please escort Mithrandir to the dining hall. Faramir and I will join you both shortly.” Boromir bowed to his father and then led Gandalf out of the room. The two spoke of Boromir’s progress in the Army Academy and Gandalf noted the pride in which Boromir spoke of his ability to fight and protect his nation, though all Gandalf could think of was how it was disappointing that such young men spent their lives training for war.

They were not alone in the dining hall for long, and when Faramir reappeared, he had changed into his best clothes. Dinner was a rather quiet affair, and Gandalf observed the dynamic between the family of three. It did not take a genius to figure out that there was a tension between them.

He kept an eye on Faramir throughout his visit. His birthday was the happiest that Gandalf had seen him since before Finduilas had passed, and he thrived around Imrahil and his cousins from Dol Amroth. Denethor presented his son with a gift: a book that had once belonged to Finduilas. The gratitude in Faramir’s eyes was something unlike Gandalf had ever seen before, and he threw his arms around his father. Denethor, usually a cold man and not openly affectionate, had no qualms about embracing his son back.

And so, he left Minas Tirith with optimism about how Faramir was coping in a household where he was clearly the least favourite. There were definite problems between him and his father, and he doubted that he was the only person who could see that, but what Gandalf could see, was that above anything else, Denethor loved and cherished his second son, and it put his mind at ease.

**********

**2998 TA, Minas Tirith**

“At just twenty, he is already the Captain-General, the youngest ever,” Denethor continued his long praise of his eldest son, and Gandalf felt a sense of pride as Boromir’s accomplishments were listed. It was true what the Steward said, at Boromir’s young age his achievements were impressive, and the young man was becoming a symbol of hope and pride to Gondor. He had hoped to arrive at the city early enough to wish Boromir well before he left for Osgiliath, but business elsewhere had prevented him from doing so.

“He is a fine young man, My Lord, and will do you and the realm of Gondor proud.”

“He already has done me proud. I know that when I pass on, I am leaving Gondor in good hands.” Denethor once again continued to praise his son, but Gandalf noted that he had not seen Faramir since his arrival, nor had Denethor mentioned him.

“And what of Faramir, My Lord? I did not see him when I arrived in the city.”

The light that had been in Denethor’s eyes when he spoke of his eldest son had very quickly disappeared and was replaced by a dark glare after his younger son was mentioned.

“You will likely find him in the library,” the Steward sneered, a mix of disgust and disinterest in his voice.

Rather than waiting with the Steward, whose cheerful demeanour had now disappeared, he went to look for Faramir, who no doubt needed a but of company following his brother’s departure, and so he headed straight for the library. Denethor was likely right, if Faramir were to be anywhere at this time in the evening, it would be the library.

To Gandalf’s surprise, however, Faramir was nowhere to be found. The library in Minas Tirith was large, but he checked every corner and could not find the teen. It had gotten quite late, and assuming that Faramir would’ve gone to bed, he headed outside for a walk, and would find him in the morning.

He had always found the gardens of Minas Tirith peaceful. Though it could not compete to the beauty of Imladris or the innocence of the Shire, he had to admit that this human realm was something truly special, and it was a place that always gave him joy when he saw it, though it was hard to ignore the shadow growing ever darker to the east.

He found the gardens so peaceful that he dozed off and woke up to see that the sun had set, and the sky was completely dark. A noise had woken him up and alerted him that there was someone nearby. Gandalf recognised the noise as a sword cutting through the air and feared the worse, though there was no clash of it hitting another sword. Curious, and slightly on guard, he approached where the noise was coming from.

In front of him, he saw a young man with a sparring sword, hitting what appeared to be a makeshift training dummy, grunting as he hit it in anger. Moving closer, Gandalf was shocked to see that it was Faramir who was taking his frustrations out on the dummy and the boy was clearly exhausted, for he was barely able to hold his sword upright.

“I did not expect to find you here, Faramir,” he said, and Faramir spun around, eyes wide with shock and his sword held high before him ready to strike. Guilt ran through Gandalf as he realised he had startled him and Faramir lowered his sword as he recognised the man who had sneaked up on him. “Why are you here so late?”

“I have to train,” he said, short and sharp, and turned back to continue striking the dummy. Gandalf watched as his strokes became sloppier, due to tiredness, which seemed to only frustrate him. He was caught in a circle: not being able to deliver the perfect hit angered him and meant he tried to hit the dummy harder, but the more he struck, the more tired he became and thus his hits became weaker.

“You look exhausted. Why do you not call it a night?” He offered, and put a hand around his shoulder for comfort, as he was clearly distressed, but to his surprise, Faramir shrugged his hand off and spun around to face him in anger.

“I can’t!” he shouted, something he had never done in Gandalf’s presence before. “I have to be stronger! And the only way to do that is to train.” He calmed down as he finished speaking, and seemed to admit defeat, dropping his sword to the floor and then sitting down himself.

“I can’t be weak,” he said in a voice so frail and broken, Gandalf barely heard him. He sat down beside the teen and let him continue. “I’m taller than most boys my age, but I’m skinny and I have no muscles, so I have no strength in my arms. I cannot lift heavy weapons, Gandalf, so I use a bow and arrow. I’m good with a bow, but my father hates it, says it’s a coward’s weapon because you shoot from afar instead of fighting man to man like with a sword.”

“Faramir, you are fifteen, some lads grow slower. Not everyone is built big at your age.”

“Boromir was.”

“Well, you are not Boromir.”

“That’s the problem,” Faramir mumbled. Once again, the Steward must have been comparing his two sons, and whenever that happened, Faramir always came up short in his eyes.

“I do not see a problem with that, and neither should you. Boromir has his qualities, but you have yours. And the differences between you and your brother mean it is easy for you to get along as well as you do.

“Your muscles will grow, Faramir, I can assure you that. I once knew a boy much like you. He was raised among the elves at Rivendell, and though his slender frame matched that of the elves, he knew he was relatively small for a man, but eventually, he gained muscle, and became the leader of the Rangers of the North. And now he is one of the finest warriors around.” He smiled at Faramir, hoping that the comparison to Estel would cheer him up, but the look on his face had not changed.

“I do not want to be a warrior.” Gandalf knew that about him, he had known it since he had met him. Faramir was more suited to peace, and just as his mother had predicted, he would have to go to war, and it would cause him pain. It hurt Gandalf to know that young men such as the one sat beside him would have to fight a war that should have been ended long ago.

“I know. But sometimes, life forces our hand.”

They spoke no more and were both at ease in the garden. After a short while, Gandalf felt a weight against him and turned to see that the exhausted Faramir had now succumbed to sleep and had slumped against his shoulder. Not wanting to wake him, he shifted into a more comfortable position, and wrapped his cloak around him to keep him warm. And there they stayed until sunrise.

**********

**3003 TA, Minas Tirith**

Minas Tirith was in chaos. Clearly there had been some sort of a skirmish nearby, for everywhere he looked, there were injured men with healers attending to them. The chaos made him even more eager to locate the Steward Denethor and discuss Gondor’s defences.

While he had always admired the city, he found the layout somewhat tiring as it took an age to reach the upper levels, even when one was on horseback. He made it to the sixth level, where the Steward kept his stables, and left his horse there as he continued toward the seventh level on foot.

The journey from the stables to the seventh circle takes one past the Houses of Healing, which today were completely full, and as he passed them, he came across a lone figure, slumped over on one of the benches, a figure he immediately recognised.

“Boromir?” he said, approaching the form, and his head shot up. Looking at the young man, Gandalf was shocked to see how awful he looked. He had bags under his eyes and had clearly not slept for a while, and he looked like he had been crying. “Are you alright?”

“Not really,” he replied, “I will be fine when he improves.”

“When who improves?” Gandalf asked, confused as to what Boromir was talking about.

“You don’t know?” Boromir asked, a surprised look on his face. “Of course, how could you? You must have only just arrived… Faramir’s Rangers were on their way to Osgiliath when they were ambushed by a large group of Haradrim. They all survived but Faramir was stabbed twice in the chest.

“I thought he was dead, Gandalf. We were on patrol on the outskirts of Osgiliath and we heard the fighting, so we rushed to help them. Then I found him. He was so pale, and there was so much blood.” Gandalf put an arm around Boromir, who had quickly become distressed, and Gandalf was in shock at the story that he had been told, and he immediately worried for Faramir.

“They say he will awaken soon. I am waiting until he does before I go back to Osgiliath.”

That lightened Gandalf’s mood a little, to know that although Faramir had been seriously hurt, he was going to be alright. Beside him, Boromir let out a yawn and his eyes started to droop. Gandalf didn’t know how long he had been awake for, but with Faramir lingering between life and death, he doubted Boromir had slept properly since they brought him back.

“Go and get some sleep, Boromir,” he encouraged, and held up his hand to stop Boromir’s argument, “I will make sure you are the first to know if there are any changes to his condition. Your brother is in safe hands and you need to look after yourself.”

Reluctantly, Boromir left, and Gandalf headed into the Houses of Healing to see Faramir for himself. Once he arrived, the Warden told him which room Faramir was being kept in, and he made his way towards it.

The door was open slightly, and he was about to walk in the room when he heard the mumbling of the Steward of Gondor.

“Wake up, my son,” Denethor said quietly, his voice mixed with tears. Peering through the opening in the door, Gandalf spotted the Steward beside his sons’ bed. “My poor Faramir, please do not leave us,” he continued as he brushed some dark hair from Faramir’s forehead.

Not wanting to intrude on a private moment between father and son, Gandalf promptly left the Houses, deciding to visit the young lad when he was awake.

It was five days later when Faramir awoke, and the cold mood that had settled over the Steward’s household was lifted, for Faramir was much loved and everyone was glad to hear that he was healing. None were happier than Boromir, who spent the entire day doting on his little brother, determined to do every little thing for him.

Gandalf stayed away for most of the day, allowing Boromir and Denethor all the time they needed to speak with Faramir, but he was still eager to see him, having been worried for him during his short stay in the city. After both Denethor and Boromir had left, he headed to the Houses and knocked on the door to the room in which Faramir was staying.

“Mithrandir! I did not know you were here,” he said, sitting up with a smile on his face.

“I arrived five days ago and was told that you were in here. I wanted to make sure you were fine before I left again.”

Gandalf took a good look at him. He was indeed very pale, even though it had nearly been a week since he had been stabbed, and he looked weak. Gandalf doubted he would have the strength to leave his bed. what caught his eye the most though were the bandages wrapped around his chest, covering the two stab wounds he received from the Haradrim dagger.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said, following Gandalf’s eyesight.

“I doubt that. But how are you feeling, truly?”

“Tired, and my wounds hurt, but I will be fine.”

For a while they spoke, about the latest book he had read, about how he loved Ithilien, about the things Gandalf had seen on his latest journey, and whatever else came to mind. Gandalf was truly happy that Faramir would be fine, even if it would take him a few weeks to recover.

“Mithrandir,” a voice said from behind them, startling them both. “My son needs his sleep.”

“Forgive me, I had hardly realised how much time had passed. You do need your rest, Faramir, and I shall leave you to it. I will speak with you tomorrow.”

Faramir smiled at Gandalf as he left the room. As soon as the door was shut, and they were out of Faramir’s ear shot, Denethor turned to him in anger, a feral look in his eye.

“You will not see him tomorrow.”

“My Lord?”

“You will leave the city, I do not want you to see him anymore. Leave the city and leave my son. If you hadn’t filled his head with nonsense about elves, and given him books as a child, he would’ve trained harder and would not be in this state.”

Gandalf was shocked at Denethor’s outburst. He had made it clear on several occasions that he held no love for the wizard, but he had never ordered him from the city before. Looking into his eyes, he could see that the man was indeed furious with him, but he also saw how deeply Denethor cared for his younger son, even though he rarely showed it.

“If that is you wish, I will do so in the morning. I have no wish to endanger Faramir,” he said, not wanting to argue that the lessons he gave Faramir as a child had nothing to do with his injuries and had more to do with the Haradrim ambushing a small group of Rangers.

“No!” he snapped, “You will leave now.”

And so, he left that night, without a word of goodbye to Faramir, whom he had promised to see the next day. He hadn’t even left a note, leaving him to feel guilty as he knew that Faramir would feel as if he had simply abandoned him.

**********

**3009 TA, Ithilien**

He could hear the commotion from some distance away, the clash of swords and the whizz of an arrow flying. The sounds of battle were nothing new to him, he was, after all, thousands of years old, but the screams of men dying was enough to send a shiver down his spine.

The lifetime of men was so much shorter than the other races of Middle-Earth. The dwarves would reach nearly three-hundred, the elves were immortal and while hobbits had similar lifespans to men, they lived it in solitude and safety, whereas most men were cut down before they reached middle age. In many ways, their shorter lifespan was a gift, for living for an eternity was not as pleasing as one may feel, though despite this, it had always seemed unfair to Gandalf that those with the shortest lives died so young to protect the other inhabitants of Middle-Earth.

He reached the clearing where the Rangers were locked in battle the orcs, the foulest creatures upon Middle-Earth. He felt no pain at slaying orcs, for unlike other living creatures, they were born of darkness, bred for the single purpose of destroying the beautiful land they live in, and they belonged in the abyss with their master, Sauron.

He spotted a familiar figure amongst the Rangers with a bow in hand, skilfully dispatching the orcs surrounding him, though the man in question was several years older than the last time he had seen him, broken and bleeding in the Houses of Healing.

Faramir had always been good with a bow. He remembered watching him and Boromir on the archery range when the brothers were teenagers, but it was in battle that he was truly able to show his skill. However, they were quickly overwhelmed, and he put his bow down, unsheathing his sword instead. The glimpses that Gandalf got of him with a sword showed he had become a more than fair swordfighter as well. He was clearly stronger with a bow, but the boy who over ten years ago complained to him of weak arms being unable to lift a sword was gone and in his place was a fine swordsman.

He lost sight of Faramir after that, and the clearing became hectic as more orcs swarmed in, but the Rangers were able to overcome them, and after the battle was over, he took the time to go to Faramir.

Though, perhaps that was a mistake, for Faramir seemed to be in a foul mood, one that he did not associate with this particular young man.

“I’m surprised to see you,” he said, the usual warmth that was in his voice when he saw him was absent.

“I rarely announce my coming before I arrive.”

“I had grown used to being surprised at your visits, though it seems that in the last few years, they have become none-existent.” So, there was the mystery in which Faramir’s unusually sour mood lied. Faramir remembered how Gandalf had left without a word when they last met, and in the six years since, he had heard nothing from the wizard, not even the usual letter he received on his birthday.

“You are unhappy with me, lad. I understand.”

“You left,” he said, voice low so his Rangers wouldn’t hear, but full of emotion, nonetheless. He knew how much his random visits had meant to Faramir, but after his parting words with Denethor, he thought it was best to remain away, lest he damage the relationship between father and son further, as Denethor had made it clear he wanted Faramir to have nothing to do with him.

“I sound like a child, I know, but you left without a word and then disappeared for six years.”

“I had other places to be, Faramir.”

“I am aware of that, but you just disappeared. At first, I thought you were too busy to come and see me in the Houses, and that was fine, but then a week passed, and you still hadn’t returned. The Healers didn’t know where you went, and then my father told me you just left, with no goodbye, no note. Nothing. You might as well have been dead these last six years.”

Clearly Denethor had not told his son the whole story of his leaving, as Faramir was unaware that it was actually Denethor who sent him from the city, and he hated leaving without a word, though he deemed it best. Gandalf chose to keep that from Faramir though, not wanting him to direct his anger towards Denethor.

“I am truly sorry, Faramir. I had some urgent matters to attend to. And I know I should have said goodbye, it was a mistake on my part. And unfortunately, I have been busy since.”

“I know, forgive me, Mithrandir. I did not mean to sound like a child.”

“No forgiveness is needed, my friend.” Faramir smiled at his words, and they embraced, and Gandalf felt a huge sense of relief to know that their relationship wasn’t damaged. The young man before him was a stellar example of all that was good in the race of men and had become his dear friend.

“So, what did bring you back here?”

“I am in need of information from the library of Minas Tirith. Writings from Isildur himself lie in the library, and I must learn about something that was once in his possession.”

“Well, I am due to report back to my father in two days, so perhaps I can help you.”

“I would love that, my friend.”

Faramir indeed helped him as he researched Isildur and his demise, though he kept the story of the One Ring to himself. Faramir, he trusted, but knowledge of the ring in the city was dangerous, and he was not willing to risk any secrets be whispered too close to Mordor. Despite his lengthy absence from the city, the image of Faramir and himself sat in the library, noses in books, until the early hours of the morning, is one that will always make him smile.

**3010 TA, Dol Amroth**

Gandalf was silent as Adrahil’s body was lowered into the ground. Rather than be entombed as the dead of the rest of Gondor or Rohan were, those of Dol Amroth were buried, returning to the ground and becoming at one with the Earth. There was hardly a dry eye around, for the old man was dearly loved, and Gandalf himself felt sorrow, for the Prince was someone whose company he had always enjoyed.

After the burial, those not related to the Prince left and allowed his family to say a few words in private. Gandalf was among those who left, and he looked back from a distance as Adrahil was honoured by his two remaining children, and his grandchildren, of which there were six.

He remained out of the way of the grieving family, not wishing to impose himself on them, but made his way to the Great Hall in the evening for the ceremony which would celebrate Imrahil as the new Prince of Dol Amroth. Unofficially, he had been ruling as the Prince for a year while his father began to fall ill, but today he would be officially recognised as Prince.

As he headed towards the Great Hall, he literally bumped into a figure that was heading around a corner.

“Ah, Mithrandir. Forgive me, I was not looking,” Boromir said, realising who it was that he had ran headfirst into.

“No need for apologies, Boromir.” The two of them walked together toward the Great Hall in preparation for the ceremony which was to begin soon.

“I am sorry about your Grandfather,” Gandalf said, sympathetically. He knew that Boromir and Faramir were both close with their Dol Amroth kin.

“Thank you, and it means a lot that you are here. He really admired you.”

“That means a great deal to me, for I also admired him. He was truly a great man, as is his son, who will make a fine Prince of Dol Amroth.” Boromir nodded his thanks to Gandalf, and taking a good look, Gandalf could tell that the young man felt tremendous grief at the death of his grandfather, a man whom he was close to.

“So, how long shall you stay here?”

“Until tomorrow morning. Father gave me leave to journey here for the funeral but instructed me to return the following day for I am needed in Osgiliath. The orcs have doubled their attacks in recent weeks, and he cannot afford for me to stay here too long, for the journey itself is a fortnight.”

“Will Faramir leave with you?”

“No. Faramir has been here for a week already and will remain for the rest of the month. He was ill with a fever a few weeks ago, and hadn’t recovered very well, so I convinced father to let him journey here to recover. He always fares well by the sea.”

What Boromir left unsaid was that he feared Faramir would end up like their mother, longing for the sea, and that was not something he was willing to risk, and would often advise both Faramir and Denethor to let him journey to Dol Amroth once every while.

Their conversation had led them to the Great Hall, and they took their places as the ceremony began. Imrahil sat upon the Great Seat of Dol Amroth, while his own heir knelt before him, pledging to serve him as the new Prince of Dol Amroth. Elphir then handed his father the ceremonial sword that is passed down to the eldest son of their family, and proclaimed Imrahil to be the twenty-second Prince of Dol Amroth.

Cheers and applause thundered around the room, and Imrahil announced a night of celebration in honour of his father. It was during these celebrations that Gandalf sought out Faramir, who after a small beverage with Boromir, Erchirion and Elphir, sat alone in his grief, as he ever did. Faramir was a suffer in silence type of person, years of being told by his father that emotion was weak in men did that to him.

“Refill?” Gandalf said as he approached him with a jug of wine in his hands.

“No, thank you,” Faramir replied, and Gandalf took a seat next to him.

“I am sorry about your Grandfather. I know he meant a lot to you.”

“He did,” he replied, voice full of sorrow, “And I wish he were still here. But someone once said to me that there is no pain in death, and that comforts me, for in the end, he was certainly in pain in life.”

“Well, this person must be very wise,” Gandalf said with a smirk on his face, remembering the conversation he had with a then five-year-old Faramir just after his mother had passed away.

“The wisest.”

They both looked around at the celebration which was now in full swing. People had come from all corners of Gondor to pay their respects to Adrahil and celebrate Imrahil’s new position.

“I have had many people express their condolences today. So many people loved him, more people than I realised, and that gives me comfort, knowing that he had the love and respect of all of these people here. But he earned his reputation through ruling in kindness, through helping others, not through great deeds in battle. It’s the kind of legacy I want for myself, to be respected for the good I gave to the world.”

“He was a great man, and great men leave a legacy behind that is remembered for a long time. And I have no doubt you will too.”

Faramir had inherited Adrahil’s intelligence and sense of judgement, two qualities that made him such a respected man, and it was these qualities that the Rangers of Ithilien admired in their Captain. Faramir possessed other traits that belonged to his mother’s side of the family: his gentleness, love of nature, and the dreams he so often curses, but traces of his grandfather Ecthelion were there as well: determination to succeed, natural leadership, and even stubbornness.

However much Faramir mirrored Adrahil and Ecthelion though, Gandalf had long thought that he was most like his father Denethor, or at least Denethor of long ago before he changed into the cold man he now was. Faramir shared the same ability to read people as his father did, their decision making was strikingly similar, and they both carefully assessed things before acting, never acting impulsively. Gandalf had never voiced this opinion to Faramir, fearing that the young man would not understand, and Gandalf had often thought that the reason they clashed so much is because of the similarities between them, that when Denethor looks at Faramir he sees the man he should’ve been himself.

The two spoke more of what they had been doing since they last saw each other, and Gandalf noted that Faramir seemed most at ease when he was speaking about Ithilien, and of course, his brother, Boromir, whom he was still as close to as he had been when they were children, despite their respective duties meaning they have little time to see each other.

He remained in Dol Amroth for only one further day after the celebration, for he knew he could stay no longer. He had to return to the outskirts of the Shire, to hear Aragorn’s reports on Frodo, for he was starting to fear that darkness was closing in as every minute passed. He felt it was only a short matter of time before he would have to tell Frodo to leave the Shire, especially if he what he carried was what he believed it to be.

He sought out Faramir to say farewell, for he doubted he would return to Minas Tirith for several years. After visiting the Shire, he planned to search for Gollum and see what answers the creature had.

“You may not see me for a while, Faramir. There are things I must learn,” he explained. “Dark times are approaching, and I must try to stop them.”

“I will do my best to delay their coming,” he said, with a small chuckle.

“We will meet again but take care of yourself in the mean-time, Faramir.”

And he departed, heading for the region of Eriador, hoping to find the Shire in peace.

**********

**March 3019 TA, Minas Tirith**

_Some who die deserve life._ Was there anyone more appropriate for this statement than the young man in front of him? Save for tiny, laboured breathes, Faramir showed no sign of life. He was pale, and still, and trapped in a nightmare full of horrors that Gandalf could scarcely imagine.

It had been a long and testing few days for the people of Minas Tirith, and Gandalf had been by their side to aid them the entire time. For the first time for many decades, Gandalf felt somewhat hopeful at the thought of defeating the darkness. The Lord of the Nazgûl had been destroyed, and Aragorn’s army had destroyed the combined forces of the Orcs and Haradrim laying siege to the city. He now hoped that Frodo and Sam were able to finish their quest.

He turned back to Faramir, and willed him to make some sort of movement, to show a sign of life. The young man was wasting away before his very eyes. The poison dart of the Southron mixed with the Black Breath had meant that Faramir had been out cold for a while now, though being awake would be no better for him, for if we awoke right now, the burns to his lower stomach and legs would cause him pain. Pippin had managed to push him off the pyre, but not before the fire spread to parts of his body. Awake or asleep, Faramir would be in pain.

He had been reunited with his friend a few days ago, though he wished it had been under different circumstances.

_When Gandalf last parted from the younger son of Denethor, he said it would be some time before he saw him once more, though Gandalf himself never imagined that it would be nearly a decade before he saw his friend, and this was not how he wanted to see him._

_On the back of Shadowfax, he raced out towards the incoming group of Rangers, struggling to stave off the attack from the Nazgûl, and towards the front, was the familiar dark hair of Faramir._

_The group was about forty strong and would normally be a formidable match against their opponent, but the forces of the Nazgûl were too much for any group of men to bear. Swooping down on their fell beasts, they easily overwhelmed the group of men, tossing them high up into the air and to their deaths._

_Realising he had to do something quickly to prevent every Ranger from being killed, he raised his staff, and from it came a bright light that blinded the Nazgûl, sending them fleeing for the time being. It was the break that the Rangers needed, and those who were still mounted on their horses were able to make it back safely into the White City._

_“Mithrandir,” he heard Faramir shout to him, face contorted with confusion. “How can this be? They told me you were dead.”_

_“It is a long story, my friend. One I fear will have to wait,” Gandalf replied, not having the time to explain it here._

_“Gandalf!” Pippin said as he ran towards him. “The Lord Steward has need of you.”_

_Beside him, Faramir did a double take at Pippin, not quite believing his eyes._

_“A halfling?” He murmured in shock, and Gandalf remembered the dream that Boromir had mentioned that lead him to Rivendell, the dream that had originally belonged to Faramir._

_“Yes, my friend. Boromir told me of your dreams, and this is one of the halflings it spoke of.”_

_“I know. I’ve already met two of them.” At Faramir’s confession, Gandalf nearly dropped his staff, aware of the two halflings he spoke of._

_“You’ve met Frodo and Sam?” Pippin voiced from below, excited at the thought of his friends still alive._

_“Yes, in Ithilien. Not two days ago.”_

_“Tell me everything, Faramir. Leave nothing out.”_

_“I will, but first I must report to my father. Let it ease your minds that both Frodo and Sam were fine when I left them.”_

_And it did ease his mind, and Pippin’s mood was lightened immensely as well, for he could not stop talking about his two friends as they waited for Faramir to return._

_He returned quicker than Gandalf expected, and he looked far worse off. Once more, Gandalf wondered what words Denethor had chosen to speak to his son, for the look on Faramir’s face was the one he usually wore when his father had less than kind words for him._

_“How did you find Frodo and Sam?” Pippin asked immediately._

_“Peregrin Took, give the poor man a chance to breathe,” he scolded, leaving Pippin looking sheepish, but Faramir merely shrugged it off and began to tell his tale._

_“It was a strange thing,” Faramir said, after he had told them how he had sent Frodo and Sam on their way, “the Ring, I mean. They were two helpless creatures surrounded by grown men who wouldn’t have hesitated to kill them and take if I said so, but it held no appeal to me. Yet they told me what became of my brother, how in his final moments he had tried to take the Ring from Frodo, and he was the greatest man I knew, and I just wonder how he could have fallen.”_

_Faramir’s voice was full of grief and sorrow. When Gandalf had been told of Boromir’s demise, he grieved terribly for the young man, but the grief that his brother held was clearly tearing him apart from the inside, and he had no one to share his grief with. Not even his father, for the tensions between them had only grown in Gandalf’s absence._

_“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” Pippin said from across the room and he came to sit beside Faramir. “Well partly wrong. I mean, Boromir did try to take the Ring, but he only wanted it to protect his people, and he redeemed himself before he died. He sacrificed himself so my kinsmen and me could live. Without him, I wouldn’t be here. He didn’t fall. He died as he lived, a brave warrior.”_

_Though he knew the truth of how his brother died, it did little to cheer Faramir._

_“Forgive me, Mithrandir, Peregrin, but I am weary. I must return to my chamber.” And with that he was gone, leaving Gandalf’s heart filled with pity._

“How is he?” Imrahil asked as he walked into the room, eyes full of concern for his dear nephew.

“Struggling. I know not whether he will make it through the night, but I know someone who may possibly be able to help him, though I cannot be certain he will be able to do so.”

Imrahil looked dejected at the news, and Gandalf stepped aside to give him time alone with his nephew. After stepping away, he heard commotion outside, and turned to see the healers bring Merry and Lady Éowyn to the Houses, swiftly followed by a concerned looking Pippin, and the new King of Rohan, Éomer, worried about their kin.

Behind them was Aragorn, looking exhausted after the battle, but he feared he would have to wait for a rest, for Aragorn would be needed in order to end Faramir’s torment, and help both Merry and Éowyn.

“Aragorn!” he shouted, “just the man I needed to see.”

He explained the situation to Aragorn, that his help was needed in order for Faramir to pull through, for the hands of the King were said to be the hands of a healer. Of all the people in the Houses, it was Faramir who was closest to death, and in dire need of Aragorn’s attention. Aragorn entered the room and took one look at the stricken man, gasping as he did so.

“Boromir’s brother?” he asked, seeing the clear resemblance between the two.

“Yes. And the new Steward of Gondor,” he replied, and Aragorn turned to him in shock, of course unaware of the events of the last few days here in Minas Tirith.

Aragorn knelt by the side of Faramir’s bed, and placed his hand on his forehead, entering the younger man’s nightmare to bring him back.

As Aragorn tended to him, Gandalf thought on his parting with Faramir as he had undertaken his father’s mission to retake Osgiliath.

_“The Steward told Lord Faramir that he wished it had been he who had died instead of Lord Boromir,” one man said, gossiping as he walked through the streets of Minas Tirith. Gandalf remained sat down, listening to the passer-byers, and his ears pricked up at this particular conversation._

_Another man joined the conversation, “‘Tis true, for I was in the Hall and heard it. And now Lord Faramir prepares for a suicide charge against the battalion of orcs gathered in Osgiliath.”_

_At this, Gandalf sprung up and interrupted the conversation, heading towards them._

_“What you say is true?” The man nodded, and before he could reply, Gandalf had taken off and rushed towards the main gate, hoping it was not too late._

_He arrived and saw Faramir at the front, leading the men towards the lower level of the city. Pushing his way through the crowd, he made his way to him._

_“Faramir!” He shouted, and the young man heard, but continued riding on. “Faramir! Do not throw away your life!”_

_“This is the city of the men of Númenor. I would gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her wisdom.”_

_“Your father loves you, Faramir.”_

_His horse stopped momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure and headed on once more, out of the gates of Minas Tirith, and didn’t look back._

_Feeling dejected, Gandalf found a quiet corner, and allowed a small tear to fall from his eye._

“His eyes,” Imrahil said, bringing Gandalf out of his day-dream. “They flickered.”

Gandalf watched as Faramir’s eyes slowly opened, struggling to adjust to the light.

“My Lord, you called me. I come. What does the King command?”

“Walk no more in the shadows, but awake,” Aragorn replied, “you are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.”

“I will, Lord, for who would lie idle when the King has returned.”

“Farewell then for a while, I must go to others who need me,” Aragorn said, and left the room. Imrahil took the now empty seat next to the bed where his nephew lay, and they spoke in hushed tones.

Faramir spotted him standing nearby and smiled weakly. He returned the smile, before leaving the room to give him time with his Uncle, and he was glad that his dear friend would be fine.

**********

**October 3019 TA, Edoras**

After many years of war and darkness, a happy event such as a wedding was something that brought warmth to Gandalf’s heart, especially this wedding in particular, for it meant that Faramir had the biggest smile he had seen on him for a long time.

There weren’t many things in this life that made him feel at peace as much as knowing that Faramir was at peace himself. Anyone could take one look at the young man and see how happy he was. There was a light in his eyes that Gandalf hadn’t seen since before his mother had passed away, and it was down to Éowyn, whose eyes held a similar light. They had healed each other.

It was a rather small ceremony considering the groom was the Prince of Ithilien and the bride was sister to the King of Rohan, but neither of them were overly fond of huge crowds, and it meant more to them having the people they truly cared about attend their wedding.

The celebration that followed the wedding, however, was much larger. At the insistence of the King of Gondor, nearly the entire population of Edoras had been crammed into the Golden Hall, joining in the celebration as their beloved Princess found happiness. Éomer himself was able to relax and enjoy the celebrations too, as he had grown to like Faramir, meaning he was less apprehensive about his sister leaving for Gondor.

He was now dancing with his sister, who looked radiant as she laughed at something he had said. Gandalf looked across the room and spotted Faramir, who watched the pair dancing, and headed towards him.

“Congratulations, my friend.”

Faramir had not seen him approach, and jumped slightly, but relaxed as soon as he saw who stood beside him.

“Thank you, Gandalf. I consider myself a very lucky man.”

You certainly are,” Gandalf jested, making Faramir chuckle slightly. They watched as Imrahil took Éomer’s place as Éowyn’s dance partner. Éowyn had been welcomed into the Dol Amroth family with open arms, each of them delighted at Faramir’s new found happiness. “Your bride looks beautiful.”

“She does.”

“You gave her your mother’s cloak?” Gandalf asked, noting the starry, blue mantle wrapped around Éowyn’s shoulders.

“Yes. She wanted me to give it to them woman I married. She would like Éowyn, I think.”

“She certainly would.”

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, content to silently observe the celebration around them. There were toasts to the happy couple, wishing them a long and happy marriage, and Gandalf even heard a few jests aimed at the groom that made Faramir blush.

“I never thanked you, Mithrandir,” he said, from nowhere. Confused, Gandalf turned to him.

“Thanked me for what?”

“For saving my life.”

“You don’t have to thank me for anything, Faramir.”

“I do. If it weren’t for you and Pippin, I would’ve died on that pyre.”

“Well, it was mostly Peregrin. But as I said, you needn’t thank me for that.”

“Did he suffer?” Gandalf knew who he was alluding to.

“It was over quickly,” he replied, and felt relief radiate off Faramir. He had rarely spoken of Denethor’s death over the last few months, and it had clearly been eating at him. But Gandalf wanted the subject changed, for the day shouldn’t be marred by anything. “But no talking of that day. Today is a day of celebration.”

“You are, of course, right once again.”

“I hope you do not mind waiting for another dance with your wife, but I plan to steal her from your Uncle for this next song.”

Faramir laughed and watched as they danced, and the celebrations lasted all night.

**********

**3020 TA, Emyn Arnen**

After leaving Minas Tirith for what would be the last time, he headed east rather than back towards the Shire to meet with Frodo before their journey. He had said goodbye to his dear friends Aragorn and Arwen, but there was still one more farewell he had to make.

He was yet to visit Ithilien following Faramir moving to Emyn Arnen, but at first glance he thought he had done a remarkable job of making the area a suitable living space, and the new house he had built with the help of Legolas and Gimli was a beautiful one. Ithilien was changing, thanks to the care of the people living in the area were giving it, and it was beginning to look as it did before its lands were purged by orc raids.

He approached the house and saw Lady Éowyn sat on the grass near a tree, watching with a smile on her face as six-month-old Elboron crawled before her, discovering the Earth. Her smile broadened as she saw him approaching, and stood up to greet him, picking Elboron up into her arms.

“Well met, My Lady,” he said as he approached, and turned his attention to the baby in her arms. “And this must be Elboron,” he said, and the baby stared at him in wonder with eyes that were the mirror of his fathers’.

“May I hold him?” Éowyn nodded and he took the child in his arms. Immediately, Elboron’s hands latched onto his beard, and he tugged on it, giggling as he did so. Though he would admit the tugging heart slightly, he joined in on the laughing.

“Well, little one, I did not know your father as a baby, but I knew your Uncle Boromir and he would tug on my beard and find it hysterical too.”

“What brings you here, Gandalf?” She asked as she took Elboron back into her arms. He hesitated for a second, knowing now was not the right time to reveal why he had truly come to Emyn Arnen.

Just then, Elboron let out a squeal of delight and they both turned to see him looking at Faramir, who was approaching with a smile on his face. Elboron reached his arms out to his father, who happily took him from Éowyn’s arms. Faramir gave his son a kiss, and his wife, before turning to Gandalf, clearly happy to see him.

“We were not expecting you Gandalf.”

“Are my visits ever expected, my friend?” he teased, causing Faramir to chuckle slightly, remembering all the times he had been surprised to see the wizard wandering through the White City. “Besides, I thought I would come and see how fatherhood is treating you. I hope I am not intruding.”

“Not at all. Will you stay long?”

The hopeful look on his face nearly destroyed Gandalf, knowing this was the last visit Faramir would receive from him. He made the decision to hold off on telling him he was to sail to Valinor until he left Emyn Arnen.

“Perhaps a few days.”

And so, he stayed for four days, thoroughly enjoying his time with the young family, and he was overjoyed to see Faramir living the simple life in peace he had always wanted. After years of doing what he hated by fighting, he was free of war, and had a wife, son and a beautiful home to live out the rest of his days. He hated himself for having to drop the news of his leaving, that his visit here was actually one to say goodbye.

On the final evening before he was to leave Emyn Arnen, he sat out on one of the terraces the houses had, looking at the sunset that he had come to love so much. He would miss Gondor, and its people, but after thousands of years on Middle-Earth, he was weary, and the pull of returning to Valinor was too strong to resist.

Faramir joined him on the terrace and handed him a cup of his favourite ale.

“Sorry I didn’t join you sooner,” he said, taking a drink of his own ale, “Elboron wouldn’t go down to sleep. Just when we think he will begin to sleep well, he plays up like this.”

“‘Tis the joy of young children, my friend.”

They laughed a while, reminiscing of old memories from Faramir’s own childhood, and Gandalf knew that the time was right to tell Faramir that he would be leaving.

“This will be the last time you see me, my friend,” he said. Faramir turned to him, not quite understanding what he meant.

“What do you mean?”

“Though wanting to see your home and your son played a large part in my decision to visit you, in truth, my visit here has been one of goodbye.”

“I don’t understand.” Gandalf let out a deep sigh, knowing it would be hard for the man in front of him to hear what he was about to say.

“When I leave here in the morning, I will be heading west, where I will board a ship with Frodo that will take us to the Undying Lands.”

The confusion left Faramir’s face as he understood what Gandalf meant.

“You’re leaving Middle-Earth,” he said quietly, and with emotion.

“I was sent here long ago on a quest to help defeat the forces of Sauron. My quest is now over. It is time for me to return to where I came from.”

He was expecting a reply from Faramir, but the man beside him was speechless, left blindsided by his confession.

“though my time on Middle-Earth has been surrounded by the darkness that Sauron smeared across the land, my experience here has been wonderful, and I have met some people who I will remember very fondly in Valinor.”

He looked towards Faramir, letting the young man know that he was one of those people, but it seemed to do little to comfort him, for Gandalf could see the emotion in his eyes.

“But how can you leave now? Middle-Earth is recovering. It needs you.”

“Middle-Earth has now entered the Age of Men. I have no doubt that your race will prosper in this new age. Aragorn, Éomer and yourself are all fine men to lead your race in these new times, and your children will do so after you. Middle-Earth is in great hands.”

“I need you,” he whispered, voice breaking as he fought off tears. Gandalf looked at the young man fondly, thinking of the journey he had been on since he had met him over thirty years ago and felt a surge of pride run through him, for years of war and being constantly belittled by his father had not changed him at heart, and he was still the same caring, gentle boy he had met back then, now a man who was so unsure of himself, but Gandalf knew he would be just fine without his guidance.

“No, you don’t. You may think that you do, but in a few years’ time, you will realise that my guidance is not necessary for you to succeed in life. You have overcome boundaries before without my help, and you will continue to do so when I am not here. You are an intelligent young man, who is loved, respected and admired by more people than you realise, you just have to trust yourself, for your instincts are correct, and I know this land will flourish under your rule.”

Gandalf looked at Faramir’s blue eyes, still slightly damp with the start of tears, but they began to change, and light returned to them.

“I will miss you and your random visits, Gandalf.”

“And I will miss you. You have been a dear friend to me, Faramir, in your short time on this Earth and I shall forever treasure the conversations we have shared.”

“So will I.”

They had one last evening of story telling together, and in the morning, Gandalf and Faramir embraced as he left, bidding each other farewell once more, but this time, for the final time, as he headed for the Grey Havens, and a lifetime of peace in Valinor.

**********

Years later, after the long reign of Elessar had come to an end, and his friends Legolas and Gimli saw no reason to linger on Middle-Earth, they boarded a ship to Valinor. And after greeting those they had not seen for many years, Gandalf sat down and listened intently, as Legolas told him all about the life of the young boy he had met several years ago in Minas Tirith.

**Author's Note:**

> So, there it is. I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this. As always, I’m open to any feedback, positive or things I can do to improve my writing.


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